


Wassail

by Dasha_mte



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Christmas, M/M, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:54:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22424413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dasha_mte/pseuds/Dasha_mte
Summary: Originally posted to Wraithbait 2006The holiday went on an astonishingly long time, but Ronon could see how the Earthlings, coming from a galaxy that had never known the predations of the Wraith, would have a lot to celebrate.
Relationships: Carson Beckett/Ronon Dex, Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	Wassail

For Martha. Happy Yule.  
  
~*~  
  
  
"Are you enjoying the party, Ronon?" Elizabeth asked, as always more formal and careful with him than she was with anyone else. She turned the plate she was holding and tilted it toward him so that a small pile of tiny nut cakes was within easy reach.  
  
"It's a good party," Ronon said. "How many more days are left?" He took one of her cakes and popped it into his mouth.  
  
"Days are left?" she asked, doing a bad job of hiding her confusion.  
  
"Of the festival." Ronon took another of her cakes, since she was still holding them out absently. The thing with taking her food had started as a string of misunderstandings. McKay took food from Sheppard every time they ate together. Assuming that McKay was a subordinate--if a highly valued and personally protected one--Ronon tried to show his acceptance of Sheppard's authority by taking his food, too. Sheppard had responded by getting more food when he was eating with the team. By the time Ronon had worked out the convoluted chain of command enough to realize that--except for when they were off-world--Rodney was higher than Sheppard, he had already tried to demonstrate his allegiance to Dr. Weir by taking a chunk of raw vegetable one day when she sat down across from him at lunch.  
  
Her surprise and horror lasted no more than a second, and only showed at all that first time. Ever since, she had been offering him tidbits from her plate, apparently under the impression that food sharing was a Satedan custom. Aside from the thorny issue of correcting a superior over a social issue--a quick way to scuttle your career, especially when you were a lowly specialist--she was trying so *hard* to make him feel at home that he really didn't have the heart to tell her it was wasted.  
  
Right now, she was looking confused again. "Well, there are three days until Christmas, and six days corrected calendar after that till New Years'--"  
  
"You forgot Kwanzaa," Ronon said. Apparently that was a harvest festival, something Ronon understood. Except here in the city in the middle of the ocean, there wasn't anything to harvest. And the Athosians wouldn't have a harvest for another--well, he wasn't sure. The Athosians kept time different from the Earth people, and neither system matched the planet they were on very closely.  
  
She smiled. "Right. And Boxing Day."  
  
"Which doesn't involve Boxing," Ronon confirmed. He was still disappointed about that. Clearly something important was being lost in the translation.  
  
Dr. Weir seemed to think he was kidding and laughed.  
  
Under the best of times, the Earth people living in the City of the Ancestors were odd, but they were well armed and very generous. Ronon liked them, at least on the days when he could ignore the fact that they weren't nearly afraid *enough* of the Wraith.  
  
Lately, though, they'd gotten odder. Currently, they were in the middle of a month-long festival called "Christmas," and the celebration not only lasted a surprisingly long time, but involved activities they'd never shown any interest in before.  
  
Although they showed a definite preference for red meat (except, strangely, when the preference was to exclude meat) most of the time, they began the Christmas celebration with a feast called "Thanksgiving" where they ate dry, tasteless meat from some kind of huge bird. Inexplicably, the meat itself was so important that it had to be shipped in *from another galaxy* and cooked in a very specific way. Ronon assumed that it was some kind of holy sacrifice particular to the god they were thanking, but though he tried several times, he couldn't get a straight answer about that. Nor about the multi-day subfestival involving candles. He asked four people, but none of them gave a coherent explanation, even the Athosians, who had enjoyed it immensely.  
  
Tonight was the party sponsored by the biology department. Biology included three guys in something called "native food acquisitions," who took turns freaking out whenever Halling took them on trade missions. They knew something about food, though, and this was the tastiest party to date. It was lightyears ahead of the one with the sacrificed bird, and even beat the fried things they'd had on the first night of the candle festival.  
  
The portable music device that for several days had been placed in the dining hall had been moved to the main rec room for the party. And that was another weird thing. Normally, the Earth people weren't particularly musical. They didn't sing. They only rarely played an instrument or danced. What music they had was mainly recorded and listened to on private devices with earphones.  
  
It wasn't a problem. Ronon's own people hadn't been particularly musical, either. Not compared to some of the other cultures he had visited.  
  
Except suddenly there was always someone sitting at the device playing holiday music and sometimes singing. And, even weirder, it wasn't an Ancestral technology. It was from Earth. This 'synthesizer' was clearly a complicated, even extravagant, device. And it had to be much harder to operate than a drum or a pipe; the control panel on the 'jumper had fewer buttons to push. But suddenly, these quiet people Ronon had been living with for half a year evolved overnight into accomplished (or at least enthusiastic) musicians. It was weird.  
  
On the other hand, it wasn't actually any weirder than anything else about them.  
  
"You know, I've been meaning to speak to you," Elizabeth said. "If there were any holiday observances you'd been missing...or perhaps wanted to share with us...." she looked at him hopefully.  
  
"You don't have enough feasts?" Ronon asked, too surprised to consider the disrespect until it was too late.  
  
She laughed at that, too, probably still thinking he was kidding. What she might have said next was overrun by McKay, who slapped Ronon on the shoulder as he passed. "Come on. Meeting."  
  
Shrugging, Ronon stole one last little cake and followed McKay over to a small table by the wall he'd commandeered. "Yes, yes, we haven't got all night. Nice of you to join us, Colonel."  
  
"Look. This is a Christmas party. Maybe you know what that means?" Sheppard taunted.  
  
"Desalination is about to go kerplooie. Ten thousand years of 'deferred maintenance,' maybe you know what that means?"  
  
Sheppard rolled his eyes, but he sat down, which meant that he was going to go along with whatever McKay was about to propose. McKay turned his laptop, so that a mysterious picture of weirdly angled machinery showed. "This is what the probe showed us when we got past the housing."  
  
Teyla, looking over Sheppard's shoulder, frowned. "What is it?" she asked. "Corrosion?" Her fingers hovered just above white streaks on the screen.  
  
"No, actually. Although that was a good guess." McKay was nicer to Teyla than to most people. "Even now, the conduit hasn't corroded. That is mineral build up. The--right. Never mind. The subsystem that was supposed to remove the deposits broke, and we have to fix it and replace the conduit. Got it?"  
  
"This is a simple piece of engineering," Sheppard protested. "Why are you working on it? Why are you working on it at a Christmas party?"  
  
"It's a vital piece of engineering, and Elizabeth said I should see to it personally. And we're doing it at the *Christmas party* because you wouldn't answer your radio when I told you to meet me in the lab." He sighed. "Besides, we'll need Ronon."  
  
Ronon blinked. "I don't know anything about engineering."  
  
"Really? I'm shocked." He closed his eyes briefly, which meant he was trying very hard to be polite. "This housing has to be manually lifted out of place. It's huge, and it's heavy. The portable antigravity winch isn't up and running yet, and even with a pulley system, that is some heavy work, so naturally, I thought of you."  
  
"Hey, we have a portable antigravity winch?" Sheppard asked hopefully.  
  
"No, didn't I just say that?" And then, completely nonsensically, snarled, "Jesus Christ, Carson, will you pick a key? It's just 'Jingle Bells.'" He glared briefly in the direction of the music device and heaved a miserable sigh. "And no, I don't want a marine detail. Cadman always volunteers when I need marines, and I'd sort of like to be able to concentrate, because, once again, this is kind of important."  
  
Teyla pulled up a chair and sat down close to Rodney. "How important is it?" she asked soothingly. Probably, Ronon realized, it was exactly the question McKay wanted asked.  
  
"Well, if we screw this up--and by 'we,' I mean 'I'--main desalination breaks down, and since we're not sure the back-up systems will work, we'll probably run out of fresh water in just over four days. Assuming I can't *fix* the system in four days."  
  
Sheppard sighed. "And I guess you want to do it right this minute?"  
  
"Want? What does want have to do with it? If *want* figured in any of this, I would eat myself sick on almond cookies and forget the whole thing in favor of a twenty-hour nap. But no, before we can disassemble the housing, we have to wait for Zelinka to finish fabricating the replacement conduit. I'm hoping that will be done by tomorrow, because the system could fail, oh, any time now, and *damn* it, Carson, just stop." He surged to his feet and stormed over to the music device, nudging Dr. Beckett aside the same way he evicted technicians from their work stations.  
  
"Excuse me, Rodney, but I'm playing the--"  
  
"No, no, really you're not. Get up, up--"  
  
Ronon rose, thinking that McKay's rudeness was out of line and he might benefit from being gently hit over the head, but Beckett had already moved, and McKay had already shifted to lecture: "What you have to remember when you play 'Carol of the Bells' is that speed isn't the goal, consistency is." His hands raced over the black and white controls with the same swift competence he showed on the consoles of the Gateroom. "It doesn't matter if you aren't fast as long as you're relentless. See?" He was playing the same song Dr. Beckett had been playing, but he wasn't playing it the same way. By the way people were turning to stare, Ronon assumed he was playing it better. Or much, much worse.  
  
"Now, if you can maintain the tempo--" the song shifted, becoming both faster and quieter, "allegro is nice. But--" his left hand flashed out to the side, playing something deeper and wilder, and still the same song, "if you're going to jazz things up, don't start until you feel comfortable."  
  
Despite what he'd said, he played the song impossibly quickly, and when he reached the end he moved immediately into the only Earth song Ronon could actually recognize: "Jingle Bells." Ronon had to look around, but, no, there was still only one music machine and McKay still only had two hands. He couldn't see how he could be making this much music without more of...something.  
  
"I've been listening to you people butcher this song all week. Which, I have to say, makes *no* sense. You had sheet music, for pete's sake. Not that the arrangement was anything to get excited about." Despite the griping, though, everyone present had stopped their conversations and turned to watch Rodney operate the music device. Ronon had listened to casual performances during every public meal for the last week. Some had been obviously bad and some had been very good and *nothing* had even hinted that this kind of quality was possible.  
  
"I have to say the sound system stinks. I really can't blame you for that, Carson. Still, I ought to be able to come up with something better."  
  
Ronon leaned over to Sheppard and whispered, "This is just a holiday thing, right? I mean, he's not possessed or anything, is he?"  
  
Sheppard wrenched his eyes away from McKay for a moment. "What?"  
  
"He's not possessed, is he? By some kind of...music making...non-corporeal...." Ronon realized how this was starting to sound and gave up, even though it was a perfectly reasonable possibility.  
  
Sheppard gave it a moment of serious thought, though. "He's never done this before. Maybe he touched something."  
  
McKay finished "Jingle Bells," and into the stunned silence that followed, launched into something slow and majestic. "This one gets overlooked a lot," he said, still lecturing. "On the surface, it's not very flashy. But because it's so simple, it has to be absolutely perfect."  
  
From the way people were staring, Ronon suspected that it might be. They were being very sentimental. Ronon slipped off to the punch bowl, his eyes still on McKay in case it *was* a case of possession and he turned unexpectedly violent.  
  
McKay played two more songs before he looked up past the edge of his device and noticed the crowd that had gathered. His hands froze above the controls. "Oh," he said. He stared at the surprised faces that stared back. "Well. This has been. I'm just going to. Not be here now." He was still for a moment more, then surged to his feet and fled toward the rear exit. Ronon wondered what he thought he was running to; that door just led to a store room, a shallow balcony, and one of the small rooms the Earth people persistently and illogically insisted on calling a 'bath room.'  
  
"Should I go after him?" Ronon asked.  
  
"Why?" Sheppard asked.  
  
"In case whatever possessed him is dangerous."  
  
"Oh. Good point. No, I'll do it," Sheppard sighed.  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"It's just McKay. I think I can take him."  
  
~*~  
  
Ancient bathrooms were multi-seated and shamelessly open. Elizabeth said that the Romans had had the same arrangement. John thought that probably explained why they lost the empire.  
  
Rodney hadn't bothered to lock the door. John found him vigorously throwing up into one of the elegant and completely unconcealed toilets. John locked the door.  
  
The ancient plumbing relied on water and air jets and wasn't equipped to handle anything but bio-matter, so there wasn't anything soft and absorbent stored in them. Even with the Daedalus making regular supply runs, paper products were fairly precious. Reluctantly, John took a couple of tissues from the packet in his pocket, ran them under the cold water, and held the resulting damp wad out to Rodney. "You okay?" he asked.  
  
"Fine, Major, why do you ask?"  
  
Damn. It was never 'Major' anymore unless Rodney was so upset he forgot it wasn't John's first name.  
  
"So? You want to tell me what's going on?"  
  
"I'm throwing up. Nothing to worry about."  
  
"Not worrying, check." John leaned as casually as possible against the graceful sink basin and prompted, "It's just...I'm sort of your team leader. And we're friends. So I sort of have to ask--"  
  
"Oh, just go away," Rodney said miserably, sitting back on his heels.  
  
"Yeah. The thing is, should I call Carson? Or a marine detail?"  
  
"What?" Rodney squeaked.  
  
"That *was* you, wasn't it? Playing the beautiful music? Because Ronon thinks you might be possessed or something."  
  
Rodney looked up at him. "By what?"  
  
"Musically inclined ghosts who like 'Silent Night?'"  
  
"Right....Well, don't worry. It's just a nervous breakdown. No big deal."  
  
"Oh. Heightmeyer then." He smiled encouragingly. "That's an explanation I hadn't thought of. I was thinking maybe Ancient technology influence. I mean, if the entire database could be downloaded into General O'Neill--"  
  
"Yes. There's a database out there with 'Carol of the Bells' in it. And I'm still not speaking to Heightmeyer."  
  
Okay. John tried from another direction. "The breakdown by way of Christmas concert, that's kind of new, though, isn't it?"  
  
Rodney laughed bitterly. "Shockingly, not such a surprise at this end."  
  
"So--what? Every few years you freak out and play incredibly beautiful music to unsuspecting party-goers?"  
  
Rodney went completely still. "Don't, Colonel. Okay?"  
  
John straightened. "Don't what?"  
  
"Don't," Rodney whispered. "Don't tell me I'm *good*--"  
  
"What? Dr. Rodney *McKay* doesn't want to hear he's the best at something--"  
  
"I know you mean well," Rodney gasped. "You're trying to be kind. But really--don't--" Abruptly he scampered forward and threw up again.  
  
"Rodney? Oh, don't. Hey." Hell. "Do you want to reconsider the Heightmeyer thing?"  
  
Rodney shuddered and didn't answer him.  
  
"Well...is it the desalination system? Because we haven't been off-world in three days. And everything else works. Rodney--"  
  
"Oh, yes, of course. The *desalination* tanks are so far above my crude talents that they've reduced me to heaving in the bathroom. I may not be a god damn artist, but I know I'm a competent engineer."  
  
John ran that again. It didn't make more sense the second time. He opened the emergency channel. "Dr. Beckett, this is Sheppard. Would you mind making a house call?"  
  
Over the line, Carson sighed. "*Is it a balcony-call or a restroom-call*?"  
  
Elizabeth's voice followed. "*Is everything all right, Colonel*?" Reminded that the emergency channel was also monitored by the doctor on duty and the control room, and that the lesser evil was concealing the emotional collapse (or, possibility of possession by alien music-lovers) of the head scientist, John outed him for the vomiting. "I think Rodney ate something that disagreed with him. He's pretty sick to his stomach."  
  
"*Oh. Lovely,*" Carson said.  
  
The locked door opened for Carson. "I thought I was the only one who could do that," John said.  
  
"Medical override. Doctors were very high status people among the original inhabitants," Carson said smugly. "Well, Rodney, how are we doing?"  
  
"*We* are just fine, thanks for asking," Rodney muttered sullenly.  
  
"Ah. Wee bit grumpy, are we?" Carson asked Sheppard. "And right after that lovely performance. I have to say, Rodney, I had no idea you could do that. It was amazing." His voice was gentle and cajoling. Given just how pathetic Rodney looked at the moment, John could understand the impulse to be a little kind. "Perhaps you'll feel like playing some more later."  
  
"Look. Don't. I appreciate the thought. But don't. I know better."  
  
Frowning, Carson squatted down and checked Rodney's eyes. "How long has he been incoherent?"  
  
"He's pretty coherent," John said a little defensively.  
  
"Rodney, what was it you ate that disagreed with you so?" Carson said wearily.  
  
"Nothing. I'm having a nervous breakdown."  
  
"Right," John clarified. "He's very coherent for being out of his mind."  
  
Rodney groaned. "Look, just...leave me alone. I'll go back to my quarters. Well, after the stupid biology party is over and everyone's gone, I'll go back to my quarters. We'll just forget the whole thing."  
  
Carson ignored that. "What set him off?" he asked.  
  
"I have no idea. You saw him. He was fine while he was playing. Probably fine. He's been a little tense lately."  
  
"What? Rodney?" Carson asked teasingly as he took Rodney's pulse.  
  
"Ha, ha. Sitting right here."  
  
John shifted uneasily. "Maybe we should just go down to the infirmary. Make sure there aren't any...anomalies."  
  
"What kind of anomalies?" Carson asked, suddenly alert and suspicious.  
  
"I don't know. The kind that are caused by some kind of alien consciousness taking over."  
  
"Very funny," Rodney muttered. "Look, I've just got some baggage, all right? That's all." He took a deep breath and let it escape in a miserable sigh. "Carson. Shoving you away from the synthesizer before. I was out of line. I mean--It's not like I don't know what my limits are. I don't have what it takes to criticize your performance. You were just having a little fun."  
  
The doctor seemed a bit derailed by Rodney apologizing for his usual rudeness. He hemmed for a moment and said tentatively, "But Rodney, what you did was amazing."  
  
Instead of preening, Rodney went stiff, and his voice turned very cold. "It was technically perfect," and the wooden pronouncement was nothing like Rodney's normal bragging. "But your amateur playing around probably had more heart."  
  
"What are you talking about?" Carson asked. "That was brilliant. To play all that from memory--when I know you haven't had a chance to practice--"  
  
"Oh, please," Rodney muttered. "Like I would *memorize* Christmas carols."  
  
"Oh," Carson breathed. "By ear then. I don't know why you aren't completely full of yourself. Another area where you're a genius--"  
  
He sentence stumbled to a halt as Rodney scrambled back to the head and threw up again. Apparently there was something left in his stomach. Not much, though.  
  
John gave in and soaked the last of his tissues. Rodney's hand was shaking as he took it and wiped his face. "Look. For the last time. I know I'm not...musically talented. I can hit the right keys, but I don't have the soul. So please stop trying to be nice to me--I mean I *appreciate*...that is, you're a lot kinder than people usually are, and I know you mean well--"  
  
"We're not being nice to you," Carson protested.  
  
John thought of an entire packet of tissues sacrificed to Rodney--or the possessing alien--and snorted, "I am," but not very loudly.  
  
"Stop it!" Rodney shouted. In the small, sleekly tiled room his words bounced back in a flat, almost painful echo. Surprised, John and Carson didn't say anything until the ringing in their ears died away.  
  
"Who told you you couldn't play, lad?" Carson asked. "Was it your parents?"  
  
Rodney sagged, laughing helplessly, hiding his face in his hands. "My piano teacher," he said.  
  
"Ah," Carson sighed knowingly and dug in his pocket until he produced a broken bit of ribbon candy. "Your mouth must taste right nasty," he said, holding it out.  
  
Rodney took the candy but instead of putting it in his mouth he stared at it for a long time. "You son of a bitch," he said at last. "That was good. I was good. Those were stupid Christmas carols on a lousy Yamaha and--I was amazing." He threw back his head and shouted at the ceiling. "Did you hear me, you son of a bitch? No, you didn't. Why? Because you died in mediocre obscurity in some other fucking galaxy! But I was here and I was good!" he was yelling so loudly that the content of his rant was almost lost in the flat echoes. "I was brilliant!"  
  
Carson crouched down and put an arm around his shoulders. "Rodney? How about a nice, deep breath, hm?"  
  
"I was good, Carson. I was good."  
  
"Oh, yes."  
  
John's radio clicked on. "*Everything all right?*" Elizabeth asked.  
  
John swallowed hard. "Rodney's yelling. Everything's fine."  
  
"*Keep it that way*."  
  
"Yeah, mom. Merry Christmas." He closed the channel.  
  
"I'm going to need a consult," Carson muttered.  
  
"Not Heightmeyer," Rodney growled. "I'm carrying a grudge."  
  
"Rodney--this isn't a little bit of baggage. This is...steamer trunks!"  
  
"How about that social psych guy? Howard? Houer?" John suggested. "He normally deals with natives, but--?"  
  
"Great idea," Carson said, pulling off to the corner and triggering his comm.  
  
John looked down at Rodney. "How old were you?" he asked.  
  
"Twelve. The no-account hack. On his best day, he couldn't do what I did tonight. And what I did tonight was *nothing*. Christmas carols. But I heard myself. I was there." He stopped abruptly, closing his eyes.  
  
"You aren't going to throw up again, are you? Because I'm out of tissues."  
  
Rodney laughed weakly. "No more throwing up. Got it."  
  
"So...it really was you."  
  
Rodney rolled his eyes. "Yes, it was me."  
  
"Good to know."  
  
"For security reasons."  
  
John nodded. "Right," he said.  
  
Carson turned around and came back--a journey of two and a half steps. "Dr. Hawser can see you tomorrow afternoon. He needs to do some research on child abuse, it's not his area. In the mean time, he suggests you get a little drunk and go back to the synthesizer."  
  
~*~  
  
Ronon was waiting when Carson came back to the party. He was leaning against the wall, looking unsettled. "Everything all right?" he asked.  
  
"Everything is fine," Carson said, mindful of patient confidentiality, but certain that it meant a hell of a lot less here, where health was a matter of national security, and team members had a better moral claim on one another than most family did back home.  
  
"McKay's not going to go berserk or anything?"  
  
Carson rolled his eyes. "You're completely batshit, you and Sheppard both." He reconsidered. "It would be easier to deal with, wouldn't it? If he were under some alien influence than if he's just genuinely hurting."  
  
Ronon shrugged. He followed Carson over to the punch bowl: something like cherry juice, slightly alcoholic, delightfully cold. "Try the little cakes," Ronon suggested.  
  
"Is Rodney all right?" Laura asked, coming up behind them.  
  
Carson grimaced. "No, he's dropped dead in the restroom, but I figured why ruin the party by making an announcement."  
  
It was just the sort of thing a grumpy Rodney would accuse someone of, and she laughed. In a weird, tormenting-older-sister way, she was completely devoted to Rodney. She was waiting for Rodney to stop being creeped out over the body-sharing thing. Being in the same room with her was often more than he could handle, though, and Carson suspected that it would be a long wait.  
  
Glowering, Ronon stepped between Carson and Laura. She laughed good naturedly and raised her hands in surrender. Ronon waited until she backed away and then turned to Carson. "I think I should challenge her formally," he said.  
  
"I really wish you'd stop saying that," Carson said. "Obviously, you can take anyone on the base except maybe Teyla. But I really don't want you to. And that's a terrible basis for a relationship."  
  
Ronon's eyes widened. He looked hurt and suddenly horrifyingly young. "I wouldn't fight her. Not *fight* her. Not with intent. Not your own people, with the Wraith out there--"  
  
Carson closed his eyes, feeling stupid. Ronon's people had had only one goal. Ronon himself had one over-riding priority. He wouldn't waste one the precious soldiers on his own side fighting her over something personal.  
  
"I get up in public and display what I have to offer you. She gets up and displays what she has to offer...actually, we don't have all that much, but I'm better looking than she is, and I can offer you better protection."  
  
Carson made a miserable squeak. "That's not a great basis for a relationship either."  
  
Ronon nodded at some inner satisfaction. "Mostly it's a way to humiliate the competition."  
  
"Well," Carson said weakly, "you are much better looking." Ronon preened, and Carson added hurriedly, "But I think a formal challenge really isn't necessary. She was a very good sport about the whole thing."  
  
Ronon rolled his eyes tolerantly. "The whole 'gay' thing. Nobody could possibly be that stupid." Because no one in Ronon's experience would ever refuse a relationship--or even casual sex--simply because of gender. There were lots of roles and moralities gender did influence, but who you slept with wasn't one of them.  
  
Carson patted Ronon's shoulder. "Think of it as a kind of cultural defect."  
  
Ronon leaned down and whispered in his ear. "You don't look defective to me." He liberated Carson's cup and took a large swallow of punch. "So what is this long feast all about, anyway?"  
  
Carson sighed. Ronon asked at least once a day. "No, there is no boxing on Boxing Day. And it's a lot of different holidays. And each one means different things to different people."  
  
"What does it mean to you?"  
  
Carson took the cup back. "Memories from my childhood. A chance to be...sappier to friends than it's normally polite to be. A reminder of all those things that..."  
  
"What things?" Ronon asked.  
  
Rodney came stalking into the room. He flung himself down at the synthesizer and began to play "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing." Although Rodney's touch was firm and confident, the music sounded hopeful and almost tentative. Carson closed his eyes for a moment. "It's a reminder that all those things we try for the rest of the year, it's a reminder of what they mean. Love. Compassion. Kindness. Brotherhood. Forgiveness. Hope."  
  
Ronon nodded. "It's hard to remember those sometimes."  
  
"It's hard to live up to."  
  
"Not for you," Ronon said. His eyes were earnest.  
  
"Of course for me! For everyone."  
  
"When I was a stranger, you were compassionate. You feared me, but you didn't hesitate to help me. I assaulted your people, held them prisoner...and you forgave me."  
  
"Oh, Ronon."  
  
Ronon smiled down at him. He could be amazingly sentimental. Carson realized that if he didn't get them out of there, a very embarrassing public display of affection would probably ensue. "Shall we call it a night, then?" he whispered.  
  
They left as Rodney was playing "White Christmas," doing things to the song Carson hadn't guessed were possible.  
  
~*~  
  
It was the mistake that jarred Rodney back to wakefulness; a B flat where an A should have been. He gasped and reached again for the note, and for the first time felt the ache in his hands.  
  
Oh.  
  
He pulled his hands in, gasping has he tried to make a fist.  
  
"Hey? How about a break? And the other half of your prescription."  
  
Rodney looked up. Sheppard was standing beside him holding out a mug of punch. "Thank you," Rodney whispered. He felt a little light-headed. The punch was sweet and wet, and Rodney held the cup between his palms and drained it in a single breath. "Oh," he said.  
  
"You okay?" Sheppard asked.  
  
Rodney nodded. Looking around, he saw that the party had thinned considerably. How long had he been playing?  
  
"More punch?" Sheppard asked.  
  
Carefully, Rodney put the cup down and gently flexed his fingers. Sheppard took one of the hands. "Hey," Rodney protested, anticipating how much worse he ache could get.  
  
"We should get you some ice. Or some very cold water."  
  
Oh. Rodney nodded tiredly. "Merry Christmas," he muttered.  
  
"Hey. Rodney. You were good."  
  
"Yes, I was," Rodney said softly. "I was an artist." He patted air in the direction of the synthesizer and stood up.  
  
Sheppard turned it off and followed Rodney out of the rec room. "I was really good," Rodney said. He hummed a few bars of 'We Three Kings of Orient Are.' I was incredible. I'll be better when I rig together a decent sound system."  
  
His sideways glance caught Sheppard smiling. "I *was* good," Rodney said sharply. "I mean, I always knew I was good at things that just required intelligence, but--but--"  
  
"You were brilliant," Sheppard said, clapping his shoulder lightly. "For what it's worth from a guy who plays the guitar very badly."  
  
Rodney sighed and flexed his sore fingers. He let Sheppard select the destination on the transporter. Ice water was probably a very good idea. "No passion. No heart. Technically perfect...."  
  
"Rodney--" John protested.  
  
Suddenly, Rodney couldn't look at him. "There are probably other...things I can do. Other things that require...art."  
  
"Right! Let's test you again at the firing range. We'll make a sharpshooter of you yet."  
  
The doors opened, but before Sheppard could step out, Rodney planted himself in the opening. They were standing close enough that Rodney had to look up a little. "There's probably other things I can do really well," he said again. He stepped forward, letting the doors close behind him. "Artistically, even. Beautifully."  
  
"Um?" Sheppard said, staring.  
  
"I thought you were the closest thing I had to a friend. And I didn't want to screw that up for nothing. Because love is an art, too. It takes passion and...feeling to be good at it."  
  
Sheppard blinked. "Rodney, you've got friends."  
  
Oh. Right. Of course. Rodney nodded, kind of stunned by the warmth rising in his belly. Elizabeth. Radek. Carson. He had friends. There's an art to *being* friends, and Rodney-- "Yeah. I have friends. But I don't--John, I don't think you're one of them."  
  
"Oh. No. I think maybe I'm not."  
  
It was a matter of centimeters. Rodney leaned forward, closed that tiny distance. John's lips were warm and sort of chapped. John's hand came up at once, closed on the back on Rodney's neck. It felt, oh, so sweet, so bright. It felt like getting five percent more efficiency out of the city's shields. It felt like playing Mozart. It felt like ZPM equations. Rodney gasped, and John's tongue whispered along the edge of Rodney's teeth. Oh, god, this, all along. It had been art all along. "I could be really good at loving you. I mean, I didn't--I didn't *know*. John--"  
  
Sheppard pulled back, his hands coming up to cradle Rodney's face. "Easy there, sport. You just drank on an empty stomach. And then there was the whole nervous breakdown thing--"  
  
Rodney closed his eyes, his heart sinking. "You're still angry. And okay, right, I can see, I mean, I manipulated you, I endangered you, and that was when I thought we were just sort of friends. I know this is a big risk, and I have a lot of bad habits. *I* didn't even think I could do this before, and I haven't exactly been practicing--"  
  
He couldn't talk with Sheppard kissing him, and after a moment he forgot to want to.  
  
"Could we finish this somewhere else?" Sheppard asked, pulling away at last. "Like your quarters? Or my quarters? Or someplace more comfortable than this elevator?"  
  
"Transporter. Right. Yes. Anywhere."  
  
~*~  
  
Carson had a wreath of needle-leaf beside his door and one of the small holiday altars set up in his quarters: the mother and father and the baby, not the elaborate candles or the decorated tree. Carson kept insisting that the man wasn't the father, only the mother's husband, but Ronon didn't see the distinction. He also didn't understand why a baby was a major symbol of benevolence and morality. Yes, a newborn had no evil in its heart and was blissfully untouched by fear of the Wraith, but a baby also had no kindness, no generosity, and no courage. Carson had given up trying to explain.  
  
Carson locked the door behind them and dimmed the lights. He wasn't as gifted with the Ancestor's technology as Sheppard, but the city still knew him. "Are you hungry, Love? Did you get enough to eat at the party?"  
  
It was a new habit, checking to see if he was hungry. For so long, Ronon had simply eaten whatever chance presented and ignored the pain in his belly when there was nothing. "I ate," he said.  
  
Carson reached up and palmed Ronon's cheek in a warm hand. "Something else, then," he asked softly, and Ronon shivered.  
  
"Yes, please." He closed his eyes, leaned down, tasted warmth and sweetness and safety. "Real," whispered, brushing his cheek against Carson's temple. "Maybe I do believe in your miracles. If you're real...."  
  
Carson sighed, pulling him in closer. "Ah, lad. When you finally do see that I'm not nearly half what you think I am...remember, I did warn you."  
  
Ronon groaned softly and nuzzled his neck. "I already know you are a very strange man from a very, very strange people." He laughed a little. "You worship trees...and fat men in red--"  
  
"You!" Carson hissed, his fingers trailing up Ronon's ribs. "Well, you have a point, actually." He shoved hard, knocking Ronon backwards onto the soft, narrow bed. Ronon let himself fall. "We're very odd people. If I were you, I'd be worried about what I might do to you next."  
  
Ronon nodded seriously. "I hope it's kinky."  
  
Carson turned the lights the rest of the way off.  
  
end

**Author's Note:**

> Arg. It took so long to get it back after the baby. I don't write any better now than I did in 2006!


End file.
